Growing Up Hottie

My whole life people have told me how good looking I am. I guess I didn't mind it at first, but now it just gets repetitive. Yeah, yeah, I have perfect cheekbones and hair that falls loosely around my eyes, blah, blah, blah. I know it sounds strange to complain about being so devastatingly good looking, but I've been hearing it since I was born.

When I came out of my mother's womb the doctors asked her if she had slept with Zeus; I was that good looking. They closed off the wing of the hospital so that no "'inferior' babies could contaminate me. Within two days of my birth, US Weekly was at the hospital trying to get exclusive pictures of what they called "the most beautiful human ever born."

When I got a little older, all the kids at school wanted to be my friend. Do you know how annoying that gets? It was always, "Oh, you're so cool," and "Can we be friends? I'll give you whatever you want." I just wanted to play on the jungle gym, but the inferiors were always nagging me for a photo-op or an autograph. It's like I missed out on my childhood.

High school was even worse. Sure, I was the best looking guy in school and I was making boatloads of cash from my modeling contracts, but I just wanted a normal life. I couldn't even get a date because anytime a girl tried to talk to me she got too nervous to speak. I felt like I was always saying, "I know I'm so super hot you can barely stand it, but I'm a person too." All the kids at school wore what I wore and styled their hair like mine" even the girls. When I got my second Mercedes as a perk from United Models of America, everyone got jobs so they could get a Mercedes too. It was torture.

Even now that I'm older it hasn't stopped. People always assume that I was just lucky to be born so ravishingly delicious, but it's a lot of hard work to stay this inexplicably bone-able. God, if you could only walk one mile in my custom Italian-made, alligator skin shoes, you'd understand that being this monstrously sexy is like a curse. Modeling is no easy business; it's just as hard as any other job. Sure, you may lift heavy boxes all day at a moving company, but would you rather have to sit on a beach for two hours every month and look good? I think not. I'm sure you think being a teacher requires a lot of concentration, but have you ever tried strutting the catwalk at New York Fashion Week? I bet your retinas would give out from all the flashbulbs.

Besides the obvious and almost impossible challenges of my job, people harass me to boot! It seems like for every person thanking me for being so good-looking and brightening their life just by being alive, there is someone else yelling at me for making them feel bad about themselves. "Oh, you models make people think they have to look like you do," they say. Well that's just not true; nobody could look as good as we do. Why do they even try? Look, I never asked to be so perfect, it just happened. I can't help it if the world wants to look at me. I'm the victim here. If looking at me makes you feel bad because you're not as stunning as me, then maybe you shouldn't look so much (even though I know that's almost impossible).

It seems like I have it all  money, cars, women, a perfect body and face  but I don't. You don't know what I'd give to just be normal for a day; to be just like you. It would be so fun. I would go to "'work' instead of the spa. I would "'shop' instead of having my protein bars delivered to one of my many houses. I would "'eat' instead of running two miles whenever I got hungry. It must be so nice to have such a quaint and unimportant life like all of you have. I know it sounds strange coming from someone so divine in every way, but I'm almost jealous of you people" almost.

Maybe before you judge me  or any mega-sexy person for that matter  you should stop and think about what you're doing. We deal with more crap than any of you could take. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a decent assistant who won't sell your soiled underwear at the first chance they get? Do you know what it's like having to find a bank big enough to hold all of your money? Do you even have the slightest notion of what it takes to make the same face over and over again? Can you even begin to comprehend the amount of time it takes to pick something to wear out when you have twelve closets full of designer clothes you got for free? NO! NO YOUDON'T! What did I do to deserve this terrible burden?